


Dogging

by Prochytes



Category: Being Human, Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft, Hellboy (movie-verse), Sarah Jane Adventures, Torchwood, Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-01
Updated: 2011-07-01
Packaged: 2017-10-20 22:16:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prochytes/pseuds/Prochytes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein the attempts of two pretty Welsh people to indulge their kink are repeatedly impeded by a malign fate, with a taste for puns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dogging

**Author's Note:**

> Very small spoilers for TW up to “Children of Earth: Day One” and the 2004 Hellboy movie. Small spoilers for the story “The Hounds of Tindalos” by Frank Belknap Long, and also for Being Human 3x01 (which inspired the fic). Beta-ed by the splendid arachnekallisti. Originally posted on LJ in 2011.

1.

 

Rhys already had his palms spread out placatingly when his wife stamped into the interview room.

 

“Gwen, sweetheart, I can exp...”

 

“Don’t you ‘sweetheart’ me, Rhys Williams. Or should I call you ‘Bob’?”

 

“Look: I was flustered; there were rozzers (present company excepted) everywhere; and I lost my head...”

 

“What sort of a rubbish pseudonym is ‘Bob’, anyway?”

 

Rhys flushed. “Well, I’m sorry that I didn’t manage to fake an ID up to Torchwood’s standards. I couldn’t find a handy fly boy’s to nick.”

 

“You _promised_ not to let them get started until I’d arranged the baby-sitter. Andy was pissing himself with laughing when he told me that they’d pulled you in for dogging. I’ve never been so humiliated.”

 

“Oh, you think you’re having a bad night? I was sharing a cell with a bloody werewolf.“

 

Gwen’s head turned sharply. “What sort? A Vulpanan? A Lupine Wavelength Haemovariform?”

 

“Funnily enough, Gwen, the unfortunate sod’s exact species wasn’t the first thing on my mind. I was a bit preoccupied with crapping my tracksuit bottoms when he started changing.”

 

Gwen’s expression immediately changed to concern. “Were you OK? Did he bite you? Was _he_ OK? Most of those poor creatures have no control over what happens to them.”

 

“Rest easy, Gwen.” Rhys beamed. “Sorted it, didn’t I? Hollered the place down until I got a separate cell, then made sure from the desk that the bloke’s girlfriend had come to pick him up before he... finished. From the way they said she was behaving, I’m pretty sure she’s one as well. And no one cottoned on that I’d rumbled them.”

 

“You’re a star, love. A star who won’t do as he’s bloody told, mind. But we all have failings. Now: down to business.”

 

“Business?”

 

Gwen looked up from unzipping her boot, and raised an eyebrow. “This is a busy police station, Rhys. Imagine how many people there must be, just on the other side of that door. And I told the sergeant your bollocking would take at least twenty minutes.”

 

“You did?” Rhys’s beam widened. “I love you, Gwen.”

 

2.

 

Rhys was very inclined to blame Gwen for this one. She was the professional paranoiac, after all. Surely the Torchwood training manual must have mentioned that nipping into the big abandoned house down the road for a fumble tended to be a Bad Plan?

 

Fair dues, though. Gwen had barely started idly flicking through the diary she had discovered on the floor while Rhys disengaged himself from his trousers before her eye lighted on references to “Hounds” that were “lean and athirst” in one of its final (or, to be more accurate, terminal) entries. This had been enough to kick her into overdrive, pulling herself and Rhys to a place of comparative safety. As she had explained when she got her breath back: things that were just “thirsty” were _usually_ OK, but nothing “athirst” was ever going to be satisfied by a can of Red Bull.

 

And so Rhys was now sitting in a special chamber beneath the Hub, while Gwen paced back and forth beside him, talking to Tosh on her earpiece about ways of putting off eldritch Peeping Toms that lurked in the angles of time and manifested through corners. The room was built entirely from curves. The only right angle in it at the moment was one that Rhys had, er, brought with him, because he had always found Gwen Taking Charge insanely hot.

 

Rhys hoped to God they couldn’t manifest through _that_.

 

3.

 

The wolf was staring at Rhys with glassy eyes. He wondered whether it had led a rich and fulfilling life. That might be regarded as some recompense for being nailed, after its demise, to the pouldron of a giant fanged bruiser in power armour. The bloke had to be more than eight feet tall. Rhys did not come up to his nipples (assuming that huge toothy super-soldiers had nipples, which wasn’t a topic Rhys fancied as an ice-breaker). Gwen barely made it to his navel (see above).

 

“Forgive the trespass upon your time, Brother Ragnar,” the man in the robe at Rhys’s shoulder murmured. Rhys had not caught this one’s name, but he knew the type. A long thin streak of bureaucratic piss floats on the surface whatever the millennium. “We apprehended this pair in a cargo bay. Their observances were, I quail to speak it...”

 

The giant called Ragnar chuckled. “I already know their ‘observances’, Adept Simeon.” He drew air in through his nostrils. “The lovestench is thick upon them both, or I am no Son of Leman Russ.”

 

Simeon winced, but pressed on. “The senses of the Adeptus Astartes are keen indeed. But, if I may venture an observation, the vigour and the... perversity of the acts in which these two were detected, Brother Ragnar, suggested a connexion to... to the Dark Prince.”

 

“Told you we didn’t have time for you to do that thing with your tongue,” Gwen whispered.

 

“I will have the truth of it.” Ragnar stared down at Rhys. “Your name, man?”

 

Rhys straightened his back, for all the little good it did right now. “Rhys Williams.”

 

“Good. Look me in the eye, Rhys of the Williams, and know it worse than death to play a Space Wolf false. Hold you allegiance to the Lord of Dark Delights?”

 

“Absolutely not, man.”

 

Gwen was silent. Rhys suspected she was wondering whether “the Lord of Dark Delights” was one of Jack’s innumerable aliases. He hurried on:

 

“Really sorry about doing that on your spaceship. Breach of naval etiquette, or what have you. We thought we were just in a cathedral.”

 

“Not helping, Rhys,” Gwen hissed.

 

“His heart is pure,” Ragnar told the sour-faced Adept. He chuckled again. “Though I feel the heat of his woman’s longings.”

 

Rhys looked sideways, and caught Gwen’s dreamy expression. For a moment he seethed ( _what is it with her and big oddly-dressed military types from the future?_ ). Then he saw the object of her gaze, and breathed again.

 

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Gwen. You couldn’t even lift that thing.”

 

“Self-propelled mass-reactive shells,” Gwen sighed, “with super-dense metallic cores, and diamantine tips...”

 

Ragnar slapped his gun, and laughed aloud. “Your woman’s bone-house is but small, Rhys of the Williams. But for all that, a wolf prowls within it.”

 

“Don’t I know it, mate.” Rhys grinned nervously. He could feel the Rift energy that had catapulted him and Gwen into this far future fun-house building again inside him, and hoped that it would do its thing as tactfully as possible. Ragnar seemed to be a top bloke, for a wolf-fixated eight-foot killing machine. But Rhys suspected that going sparkly in his presence would be unhealthy. “Don’t I know it.”

 

4.

 

Rhys was not a great fan of your cheap late model Chevys. He did not like the way they handled, and he harboured serious doubts about their turn circle. But it had been necessary to count the pennies for this US road trip, and Gwen had decided to economize on car hire.

 

Still, flipped on one side, a Chevy did make a serviceable barricade.

 

Gwen was crouched beside him. Rhys felt that her current Modesty Blaise look (knickers, bra, two guns; she hadn’t had time to fling her clothes on, when all burning Hell had broken loose) was possibly the coolest thing he had ever seen. By the way she had been swearing, Gwen seemed to think it was just the coldest. Her headlights were certainly a lot more visible than the bloody Chevy’s. They weren’t doing wonders for his concentration.

 

“Any luck with the database yet, Rhys?” Gwen asked, as she lined up another shot.

 

Rhys squinted down at the laptop she had thrust into his lap. “Ah, yes. Here’s your beastie. ‘Sammael, the Desolate One, Lord of the Shadows, Son of Nergal...’ Hmm. Sounds nasty.”

 

“Don’t let it spook you, love. Things like that always try to make themselves sound sexy by associating themselves with ancient gods. They’re like that crap Greek wine your mother drinks.” Gwen fired again. “Ha! Winged you, you bastard!”

 

“‘Hound of Resurrection...’” Rhys had gone back to reading off the screen. “‘... One shall fall; two shall rise.’ Well, at least _something’s_ getting to rise tonight.”

 

“Er. That sounds worryingly specific.” Gwen risked another peek over the car. “Oh. Oh dear. I think we’re going to have to unpack the flamethrower.”

 

“You packed a flamethrower?”

 

 5.

 

“Is something wrong, master Rhys?” piped the metallic voice from the other side of the door.

 

“N... nothing at all, K-9,” Rhys gasped.

 

“Your voice patterns indicate elevated levels of stress, master Rhys. Is mistress Gwen with you in the attic?”

 

“You might... as well tell him, you know.” Gwen whispered in Rhys’s ear. “His sensory array is quite... remarkable.”

 

Rhys shuddered as Gwen canted her hips just so. Sweet Jesus, she was getting turned on by the level of a tin dog’s tech. She really had been in that job of hers too long.

 

It had seemed so straightforward, house-sitting for Sarah Jane while the Doctor whisked her and the kids off on an outing to Barcelona. But Gwen was wearing that summer dress with the cleavage. Truly, libido was the bane (pun intended) of Rhys’s life.

 

“Everything’s fine, K-9.” Rhys squeaked. Gwen was putting on the pressure with her thighs. She wasn’t a big woman, but she did do an insane amount of running. “Could you possibly go downstairs for a bit? We’ll call if we need you.”

 

“Affirmative, master Rhys.”

 

“Alone at last, Mr. Williams,” Gwen murmured. “Tell me how much you want me.”

 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Rhys squeezed his eyes shut as she upped the pace, “I want you more than anything. I love you, Gwen. I crave you. I NEED YOU...”

 

Rhys heard the sudden hiss of steam. He gazed down at the stricken look on Gwen’s face; turned his head to the attic wall; and sighed.

 

“Oops. Maybe not my best ever choice of words.” His expression brightened. “Do you think that Mr. Smith has a ‘record’ setting?”

 

FINIS

 


End file.
